


i get so scared of what i can't understand (but here i am)

by LadyAlice101



Series: the lady of winterfell - s7 au [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, Undercover Lover Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: Anon gave jonsa-creatives this prompt and I’ve taken it on …sansa can't understand why jon doesn't treat her the way he used to before he left dragonstone. he's cold and distant and sansa just wants her jon back, the one who smiled warmly at her and took care of her in little ways... he's home but she still misses him. jon has his reasons... he's protecting sansa from the jealous dragon queen. he can't let danielle know how he truly feels about sansa...





	i get so scared of what i can't understand (but here i am)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the first work in the series.

 

When she sees Daenerys’ retinue approaching Winterfell, Sansa tries so hard to fight the giddiness that bubbles up in her. There’s a single rider who’s slightly ahead, and Sansa knows that it’s Jon.

The bitterness that she’d felt before she saw him in King’s Landing has no place in her now, because all she can think is how happy she is that he’s back. She is quick to walk down the ramparts and into the courtyard, too excited to even notify her siblings, but they are already there when Sansa gets down.

Various lords have also gathered, servants and the like stopping to welcome their King. Sansa ignores the twinge she feels every time she remembers, _no, not King,_ and focuses on him being back. Because she’s just _so happy._

The gates open, and Jon, atop his horse, enters the courtyard, Daenerys beside him. The Queen is as beautiful as she remembers, white hair and violet eyes, fair skin and Southron clothes.

Jon doesn’t even look at Sansa, but his eyes do stop and linger on their younger siblings. Then he dismounts, and turns to help the Dragon Queen down as well.

Arya has been bouncing her leg since she saw Jon, but his dismissal of them has made her go still.

“Is he joking?” she hisses quietly, so only Sansa and Bran can hear.

Sansa shrugs one shoulder, all her happiness draining from her in one quick moment, and Bran says nothing, as usual.

Jon steps forward hesitantly, then drops to his knees to hug Arya, who is stiff but relieved, and Jon then hugs Bran, as well. He stops in front of Sansa and takes her hand and presses a quick kiss to her knuckles with a mumbled, “Lady Stark,” and Sansa gets the distinct impression that he is only talking to her because it would look odd if he didn’t.

She nods stiffly at him, a “Lord Snow,” falling from her lips.

His mouth pulls down into a frown, but he turns away from her before she can figure out what the _fuck_ is going on.

A beautiful dark-skinned woman steps forward, donned in a huge cloak that seems to drown her frame and covers most of her head.

“I present to you Daenerys of House Targaryen,” the woman begins, then continues to mouth off several more titles.

When she is done, an awkward silence descends and Sansa wonders if Jon is going to say anything.

Nope. He just looks sour and grumpy, as always.

Sansa steps forward and smiles warmly, her fingers clenched tightly together in front of her stomach.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” she says soothingly, making sure she is standing properly but also looks relaxed, to try and soothe the Northern lords. “I’m sure it has been a long and unpleasant journey. I’ve had rooms prepared for you, and tonight there shall be a feast in your honour. There is ample space outside the walls of Winterfell for your army, and everyday we offer food to those who can’t find any; your people are welcome to collect what they need to survive.”

Daenerys nods graciously. “Thank you, Lady Stark. I will ensure they don’t take more than they need.”

Sansa is grateful for that, more than anything. Truthfully, she had been worried about it since she left King’s Landing. She’d spent every waking moment thinking about how she was going to feed so many people, had lost a lot of sleep worrying about her own people, let alone all of Daenerys’.

“I will show you to your rooms,” Sansa says.

She turns, and Daenerys follows her, several other people joining them. Sansa recognizes Varys, and tries not to frown at him. She has only just rid the castle of Littlefinger, she is loathe to let another manipulator into her home.

Tyrion comes up to walk beside her. “I was surprised to see you at the Dragonpit, My Lady.”

Sansa smiles tightly down at him. “I was invited by Queen Cersei. I thought it best not to deny her.”

Tyrion hums in agreement. “I wonder, though, if you were not anxious at being back there under invitation from my sister? She surely could have been tricking you.”

Sansa tries not to narrow her eyes down at the man. She wonders if he’s trying to figure out if she’s stupid for going down, or if it was for some ulterior purpose. She likes to think Tyrion knows she’s not stupid, so he must be wary about why she was done there, and what she and Jon spoke about.

Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so odd that Jon didn’t want to look at her. If Tyrion suspected something was amiss, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to say that Varys had set his ‘little birds’ ahead to Winterfell. They had been taking refugees in for weeks now; it wouldn’t surprise Sansa if spies had been sent in too. If the Queen’s party suspected Jon wasn’t completely faithful to them, it made sense that Jon would try to dissuade them of that.

“I suppose I’m just lucky she wasn’t,” Sansa placates.

Tyrion purses his lips and looks straight ahead.

“Yes,” he says wryly, “very lucky,”

 

* * *

 

The Dragon Queen has been in the North two weeks, and Sansa has seen very little of Jon. He’d disappeared with Bran and Sam the day after he got back, and since then he’s been extremely scarce. She’s seen him in the evenings, at supper, sitting with Daenerys, who takes the Lord’s chair at the high table. She had tried sitting at the table with them for a couple nights, but eventually Daenerys’ highhandedness and Jon’s dour mood had forced her to seek respite elsewhere.

She’s sat amongst many different people during that time, lords, warriors, wildings. In between Brienne and Tormund is her favourite, Tormund’s incessant but harmless flirting never failing to make Brienne uncomfortable and Sansa laugh.

This particular night that’s exactly where she is, beside Tormund, Brienne in front of her, and Sansa is getting into her cups. Her goblet of wine has been refilled four times over, and she can hardly stop laughing, let alone put on any sort of mask as the Lady of the castle.

“- and then the little fucker bit him right on the pecker!” The table roars with laugher at Tormund’s shouted story, and Sansa can’t help but laugh, the ale she had just taken a sip of being spit from her mouth and dribbling down her chin. It only spurs more laughter from them all as she attempts to wipe it from her face.

“Fuck, Sansa, hold your drink, woman!” Tormund shouts, taking a large swig from his own cup.

Sansa pinches him on his side and he jumps and spits his own drink out.

“Fuck, Tormund, hold your drink, man,” Sansa quips.

He glares down at her while she smiles innocently, and again the table is filled with raucous laughter.

Eventually, as all conversations do, the talk moves towards the White Walkers and the coming war. It’s not too serious, as they’re all far too drunk, and so the conversation devolves into who would win; a White Walker or Tormund’s cock.

The conversation is filthy and all the points they give are stupid and illogical ( _obviously_ the White Walker would win, as soon as they touched, Tormund would become a wight, duh) and so Sansa takes to staring dejectedly up at the high table and sipping from her cup.

Jon is solemn as always, Daenerys proud by his side, and Sansa takes little comfort in the fact that Jon looks as though he wishes to be anywhere else.

This distance between he and Sansa is even worse than when they were physically miles apart, and even though Sansa knows Jon is playing pretend with Daenerys, he makes it looks so real sometimes that Sansa wonders if the lines have blurred for him.

Sansa just wants to _talk_ to him.

She misses the little things the most. She misses the big things too, of course, misses talking and laughing with him in her solar when it’s just the two of them and they aren’t King and Lady, misses the walks to the Godswood, Ghost in front of them, misses his comforting presence when the memories get too much and she can’t breathe.

He always tells her that he’ll protect her, and Sansa used to think that meant from White Walkers and vile men and dragons. And he does mean it in that way, but he means more in the little ways.

The little ways she misses most. Like how he always makes sure the jug of water by her bedside is full before he leaves for the night, because he knows her nightmares make her cry so much her throat is dry and her head pounds. Or how she’ll notice her thread is getting low in the evening, when they’re sitting in front of the fire and he’s looking over charts and she’s sewing the rips in his clothes, and then the next day her stock is replenished.

Or even how, before, when Sansa was sitting to his left at the high table, he would sometimes hold her hand under the table, as if to remind them both that this is real, that its okay, that they’re together.

Now, Sansa is sitting down with the lords and free folk and Jon won’t even look her way.

A nudge from Tormund makes Sansa jump.

“You’re too deep in your thoughts,” Tormund whispers conspiratorially.

Sansa laughs him off. “I think I’ve drunk too much wine to have deep thoughts.”

Tormund follows Sansa’s gaze.

“Our boy looks a bit out of his depths, don’t you think?”

Sansa hums lowly in agreement, and takes another sip, not taking her eyes from Jon. The eyes of the man in question slide over the crowd, and suddenly he’s looking right at her.

He frowns at her slightly, and she lifts her hand into a wave, wiggling her fingers at him. _Hey,_ she mouths at him, smiling widely.

Yeah, she’s had way too much wine. She’s only ever smiled at him like that in the privacy of her quarters.

She sees him smile slightly back, but then Daenerys nudges him, discreetly glaring down at Sansa. Jon frowns as they discuss something quietly. Then Jon stares resolutely forward and his eyes don’t move again.

Sansa sighs and then downs the rest of her goblet.

“I think I shall retire for the night,” she announces, interrupting whomever was speaking and standing. “Have a good evening gentlemen, lady.”

She walks out the hall, perhaps swaying her hips slightly too much in the hopes that he’s watching, but she follows Jon’s example and doesn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t like you sister,” Daenerys announces as she enters his quarters that evening.

Jon bristles, his shoulders hunching, and he doesn’t turn towards her. He doesn’t know when he ever gave the impression he wanted to talk about his siblings at all, let alone in a negative light.

Daenerys huffs, then comes up behind him. She puts her hands on his shoulder and rubs in what is supposed to be relaxing, but it only makes him tense more.

He’s not sure how much more pretending can do, not here at home. Not with his siblings around.

Not with Sansa. Not with the possibility of Sansa.

“I think she’s plotting against me,” Daenerys continues thoughtfully, as if she hadn’t noticed his angry silence.

 _Not_ Sansa _plotting against you._

Still, Jon doesn’t speak. She must finally sense his disagreement, because she digs her nails into his shoulders slightly, then comes to stand in front of him. She narrows her eyes at him, then hitches her skirts up to straddle him.

“I think she’s in love with you.”

Jon blinks up at her, the first thing she’s said that breaks through.

“Sansa?” he asks incredulously. “She’s my sister.”

The thing the makes his own feelings so shameful, no matter what Bran had revealed to him about his true father. It’s the thing that he continually repeats to himself, when Sansa is standing in front of him, her red hair a crown and her body a temple he wants nothing more than to worship.

He thinks about that almost kiss in King’s Landing too often. The memory of the feeling of her lips on his face is almost enough to bring him to his knees.

Daenerys rolls her eyes, as if their relation doesn’t matter. And to her, it probably doesn’t, raised as a Targaryen. It’s about the only thing he’s willing to adopt from his patrilineal line, and if he’s going to engage in something as dishonorable as laying with a family member, he desperately wishes it were Sansa instead.

“Yes, she is. But no matter, I suppose.” Daenerys smiles down at him, and though Jon has no interest in the queen, sexual or romantic, or even as a political leader, he cannot deny her appeal, especially when she looks as sultry as she does now. Still, he wishes it were someone else. Daenerys rolls her hips against his. “It’s not as though you love her back, is it?”

 _I so desperately love her back_.

“And you have someone else to warm your bed, don’t you?”

She brings her lips to his, and he hardly even wants to close his eyes. He fears he will only see blue eyes and red hair and whisper the name of his supposed sister while buried in the wrong woman.

But he kisses back, and when she moans, he lifts her up to take her to bed.

He will keep them all safe, no matter the cost.

He will keep Sansa safe.

                       

* * *

 

 

Sansa only goes to the evening council’s after the Northern lords beg her to join them. She’s been mostly avoiding the meetings for a fortnight now, in fear of letting her emotions get the best of her in front of so many people.

But then Lord Glover and Lord Reed corner her one morning when she is returning from the Godswood and speak so passionately that she has no choice but to agree to attend. When Sansa enters just before the meeting begins, the Northerners look so relieved that Daenerys scowls.

Lyanna Mormont even moves her chair so that Sansa can sit beside her, seeing as she has no place at the head of the table, with Daenerys and Jon.

Jon had looked surprised when she entered, his brows knitting when his eyes caught hers, but he hasn’t looked at her since.

As the meeting goes on, Sansa wonders little on why the lords had wanted her here so badly.

Daenerys and Tyrion take complete control over the meeting, so very different to how Sansa and Jon had run them. As Daenerys talks about the upcoming war, their plans and their backup plans, no-one else speaks. Sansa wonders if it is because they agree and have nothing to say, or because they are too scared.

They should not to be too scared, Sansa thinks defiantly.

She sits forward in her chair and leans against the table, hands pressed together.

Daenerys stops speaking and looks at her, the contempt on her face well hidden, but not well enough.

“Yes, Lady Sansa?” Daenerys prompts clearly, her chin high. “Do you have something you wish to add?”

“Me?” she asks innocently. “My apologies, Your Grace, but it has been made clear to me before that my military input is of little value, as I have no experience in such matters.” Jon shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “But perhaps some of the other lords have some questions? Perhaps they might even have some ideas. After all, they know the North better than anyone.”

 _Better than you,_ goes unspoken.

Still, no one speaks.

Perhaps they need some prompting, Sansa thinks gleefully, always glad to have another reason to provoke the petty dragon queen. Sansa would not usually resort to such baseless tactics, but she knows how to play every game, even small ones such as these. And until the queen proves worthy of a greater game of thrones, then Sansa will match her on all others.

“I’m sure you must all need some time to gather your thoughts,” Sansa tells the lords gently. “The queen has given us a lot of information in such a short amount of time. Perhaps, Your Grace, if I may, I do have a question?”

Daenerys looks so put out that Sansa wants to laugh, but she grinds out an, “Of course, Lady Stark,” and so Sansa just smiles in what she hopes looks grateful, and asks her question.

“Well, Your Grace, you and your Hand have done an admirable job constructing what I’m sure is a formidable battle plan.” Sansa purposefully leaves Jon out of the equation, knowing it will make the lords uneasy with a Southron plan. Maybe it will inspire them to speak up. “But, I just wonder, you’ve made no mention of how to keep the men fed and warm?”

Immediately there are grumbles amongst those there, nods of agreement.

“I’m sure you’ve heard, but this winter is expected to be the worst in a thousand years,” Sansa continues, not taking her eyes from the queen. “Our usual means just won’t be enough, especially considering the enemy will not be affected by either of these problems, that which is usually the downfall of any enemy to march against the North.”

Sansa hopes the message is clear, that if Daenerys marches against Winterfell her army will not survive. By the fierce glare sent her way, she’s sure the queen understands.

Nevertheless, Sansa is genuinely curious to know the answer. She’s fairly sure they don’t have one, but if they do, Sansa wants to know what it is. It’s a question she has been struggling to answer herself.

The lords only become more agitated as Daenerys does not have an answer. Sansa can see the other woman becoming increasingly frustrated, and when an angry, “Quiet!” cuts through the air but no one listens, Sansa takes pity on the woman.

She throws a sharp glare at the lords, and they silence under her look. Daenerys only looks more angry at their obedience towards the Lady of Winterfell over who should be their queen, and Sansa cannot help but curl her lip slightly.

“Perhaps you will have an answer to the question at tomorrows meeting.” The dismissal is as clear as the promise for Sansa to attend the next council.

Daenerys just gets up and walks away, a hint at her humiliation. Sansa almost feels bad, but the queen played her hand poorly, and Sansa refuses to feel guilty at besting a woman who wants to be a ruler. Daenerys has a lot to prove before she will be accepted by the North, and Sansa will trial her from beginning to end.

When the door closes behind Daenerys, Tyrion scurrying after her and Jon doing the same, if much more reluctantly, Sansa sits back in satisfaction.

“Brilliant!” Lord Glover explodes. “Lady Sansa, your intelligence knows no bounds!”

Sansa smiles broadly at the compliment. All her life, she’d wanted people to look at her and see the perfect lady, beauty and grace. Now, she wants them to looks upon her and see strength and courage and the intelligence to match. To hear that they do makes her feel like a little girl again, preening at the praise of her parents or septa.

“Thank you for your kind words, Lord Glover,” Sansa says. “I do hope that you all will speak at tomorrow’s meeting?”

The gentle reprimand makes them look away shamefully.

“I’m glad someone put her in her place,” Lyanna says, sitting back against her chair. Sansa wonders why the young girl has not yet spoken out against the queen if she has such a disdainful opinion of her. Sansa has never known her to be quiet before. “That woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and tomorrow I plan to give her a good talking down over her strategy. She just talked over how to even mobilize and march our armies! The snow will be twelve feet deep in some places, are we supposed to just keep walking through it?”

Sansa smiles as the lords all start to voice their opinions on what Daenerys had been saying over the past fortnight.

Oh, yes, she’s definitely going to tomorrows meeting.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, as she’s getting out of the bath, there’s an urgent knock on the door. It’s quite late at night, as Sansa only takes her bath after everything is done for the day and she’s ready for bed, so she frowns and wonders who it could be. She figures it must be Jon, because no one else would dare disturb her at this time, for fear of waking her.

Still, she hasn’t spoken to him alone in the moons turn he’s been back. That he would dare come to her chambers now seems unlikely.

“One moment!” she calls, then steps from the bath. She pulls her light woolen robe over her body, which begins to dry some of her skin in the process, then fastens it at the waist. It settles on her upper arms in a way that probably isn’t appropriate, given how much of her shoulders and collarbones it bares, but she is too tired to be proper, and it’s much too late.

“Enter,” Sansa announces, as she begins to gather her hair.

The door slams open to Sansa’s surprise, and she drops her hair from her hands in shock, the beginnings of her braid unraveling.

“Jon!” she shouts in surprise as the door swings shut again.

“What game do you think you’re playing?” he says angrily, gesturing wilding into the air. “Do you _know_ what I had to say to Daenerys to –“

He stops suddenly, having caught sight of her bare shoulders, and swallows loudly.

She regrets her dismissal of propriety, and shrugs the robe up. It sits awkwardly, as it’s not supposed to be hung in such a way, but its better than facing his contempt at her attire.

Except – he doesn’t look angry, more . . . alarmed. His eyes drift away from her, towards the bath, and then he looks back to her, up and down, to what she is sure is her still wet skin.

Again, he swallows loudly.

“I’m sorry for barging in, Sansa,” he says awkwardly. “I can leave if -?”

“Oh, so it’s Sansa now?” she scoffs, sitting back down and starting to braid her hair again. She looks resolutely into the mirror, focusing on her task.

He softens. “Look, I’m sorry for being so cold to you –“

“Cold would imply you look at me at all, Jon,” she snaps. “I’ve hardly seen you for weeks! Every time we’re in the same room you disappear.”

He shifts, holds his arms across his body. He looks oddly vulnerable. “Bran, he – gave me some . . . news.”

“And this news someone means you can’t even stand to say my name?”

Suddenly, Sansa fears that Bran has told him what happened with Littlefinger, and that Jon has realized the woman she has become and wants nothing to do with her.

She knows her mask has dropped, the fear that Jon despises her making her suddenly desperate. Hesitantly, she says, “If this is about Littlefinger, I –“

“No, no!” he rushes, coming to stand behind her, locking their eyes in the mirror. “No, not at all. I was quite proud to hear what you did, actually.”

She is bewildered again. “Then _what –“_

“Rhaegar Targaryen is my father,” he blurts, and Sansa stills. “Aunt Ly – Lyanna my mother. They married in Dorne, Sansa. They _married._ ”

The information swirls in her head, and at first she doesn’t understand the significance of what he’s said. She can only focus on the fact that Robert’s Rebellion was based on a _lie,_ that her Aunt wasn’t _raped,_ that they were _in love and married - . . ._

“You’re not a bastard,” she says slowly. He nods. “You’re a trueborn. Targaryen.”

He nods again, waiting patiently for her to come to the conclusion. But she doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to say the big thing, the game changer, because if she says it then she’s acknowledging that maybe . . . maybe her feelings aren’t so disgusting. Maybe there’s a chance for them. Instead, she voices her other fear from this information.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she says desperately, grasping his arm and spinning in her chair, her braid unraveling again. “You can’t go to King’s Landing and _rule,_ I need you _here!”_

Her outburst takes him by surprise. “No, no, of course not Sansa.” He leans down and takes her face in his hands tenderly. “ _Never._ ”

He stays there for a moment longer than is proper, and again she knows that they are toeing this line, this line that should not even be thought to be crossed, but that they might now that he is only her cousin.

“Sansa,” he sighs, and leans back, and she knows that now they are going to have the real discussion. The one he came into her room so late at night to have.

“You cannot challenge Daenerys like that,” he says warily, rubbing his hand over his hair. “She is already wary of me, of you, and when you disobey her in front of the lords –“

“I didn’t disobey her,” Sansa replies testily, sitting straight. “It’s not my fault there are flaws to her plans, Jon.”

“This only works if she believes I am loyal to her, Sansa.”

“That seems like a problem you should resolve, then,” Sansa sniffs, and turns back to the mirror, again beginning to plait her hair.

Jon sighs in annoyance. “I need you work with me here, Sansa.”

Her lips twitch. “You didn’t need it all those months on Dragonstone.”

She hears him pace behind her, and he comes briefly into view in her mirror, then disappears again as he keeps on his track.

“But it’s _different_ now, I’m here, I’m home and it’s hard to keep pretending that I love her.”

Sansa grinds her teeth, and she wills herself not to say it, don’t say it, don’t –

“But not hard to keep bedding her, I hear.”

Fuck, she said it.

Jon stills behind her, then comes into view in her mirror, anger so clear on his face and in his eyes that it would scare her if it were any man other than Jon.

“Aye, I fuck her every night,” he spits angrily. “It’s the easiest way to make her believe I want to be warming her bed and not someone else’s. She is petty and irrational, and prone to jealousy, and if I have to fuck her to protect yo – the North, then I will.”

He recovers from his slip up with grace, but Sansa heard. He thinks he’s protecting _her._

“If you think that I believe that you bed her to protect me and not because you want to, then you are sorely mistaken Jon Snow. And if you think that you can make me quiet, that I will not question her –“

“I’m in love with you.”

It’s so quiet, she’s not sure she heard right. She stills. She needs him to repeat it. Needs, so desperately needs.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeats, more firmly, more determined, and steps towards her. “And I think she’s knows. I know she thinks you love me too, and she is _jealous,_ Sansa. I am a prize to her, and she thinks you are winning.”

Sansa closes her eyes, for fear that she cannot hide the joy in them. But then, why does she need to hide it? If he feels for her the way she does for him, and the only real barrier that they’d had doesn’t exist anymore, then . . .

She ties off the end of her hair as she decides she will tell him, too.

“I am,” she says softly, opening her eyes and looking at him in the mirror. “I do.”

He steps forward again, nervous this time. “You are what? You do what?”

“I am winning.” She smiles at him. “I do love you, too.”

Jon sways on his feet, as if he cannot believe such a thing to be true. Then he steps forward again, and again, until he is behind her chair. One hand runs down her hair then settles at the back of her neck, and the other comes to cup her cheek, gently tilting her head towards him.

He pauses, looking into her eyes, and Sansa realizes he is asking permission. She smiles at him, as a confirmation, at his thoughtfulness, and then his lips are against hers, properly, no silly pretend kiss like in King’s Landing, and Sansa can think of nothing else.

He is gentle with her, his lips pressing firmly with intent, but not so much that she feels like he is taking something from her. He leads the way softly, knowing she is inexperienced, his hand caressing up and down her cheek and neck, the other, on her neck, keeping her faced towards him.

His lips are soft as they pry hers apart, and she gasps as his tongue licks her bottom lip, and then up the center of her tongue. She whimpers as he slowly parts from her, and she chases his lips with an eagerness that makes him chuckle.

“Sansa,” he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer.

The contentment that the kiss built up in her is disappearing, so she surges up from her chair and connects their lips again. He groans against her mouth and buries one hand in her hair, and the other settles at her waist.

The kiss is more urgent that the last, a beautiful push and pull and Sansa cannot help but try and get closer, and closer. The peace that had been so strong her in her is slowly replaced by a stronger feeling low in her gut, a burning need, an ache that she is unfamiliar with.

His hands don’t wander, but hers do. They slide down his shoulders and to the front of his jerkin, and she starts to unlace it desperately.

His hands grasp her wrists and he pulls away. “Sansa,” he says regretfully. “I can’t. Daenerys . . .”

And just like that, the cold water washes over her.

“I can’t stand this any more,” she whimpers, tears filling her eyes. “I miss you, Jon. Please, don’t do this to me again.”

He looks so heartbroken, like he wants to cry, too. “Sansa, please,” and his voice is almost a sob. “She’ll kill you.”

“Let her,” she gasps. “I would rather die than go another day without you by my side.”

He pulls her into a hug, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Her robe has fallen back into place, and he presses a kiss against her bare flesh. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she says fiercely, fisting the back of his shirt.

He stays silent for so long Sansa thinks he will agree with her. But then, he pulls back. “I won’t risk your safety for anyone, Sansa,” he smiles at her ruefully. “Not even for you.”

He tugs at the end of braid, so much love in him it makes her burn.

Then he walks away from her. At her door, he turns back to her. His hand clenches over the knob, and his shoulders are tense. She hopes, _hopes,_ that he is going to turn around and back to her, take her to bed.

She has _almost_ nothing left to say to convince him to stay. “If you walk out that door, I won’t let you back in.”

It’s a lie; it’s such blatant lie. She would do anything for him, _anything._ She is desperate, though, and she doesn’t know how she can go back from here. Doesn’t know how to pretend she will be okay tomorrow, after she’s woken from her nightmares to an empty bed and no recognition from him.

He calls her bluff, though.

“Sansa, I - . . .” He sighs heavily. “I love you.”

She doesn’t think that’s what he was going to say, but he slips out the door before she can call him back.

Her hand clutches the back of her chair, her knuckles turning white.

 _He loves me,_ she repeats to herself, over and over. As she dresses for the night, it’s all she thinks. As she slips under the covers of her bed, it’s all she breathes.

And the next day, when she goes into the council meeting and Jon does not look at her for even a moment, its what makes her not say a single word as the northern lords refuse to bend the knee to Daenerys.

And when Jon comes to her chambers again that night, agitated and yelling about what went down in the meeting, its what makes her smile and take his hand and lead her to her bed.

“This is a good thing, Jon,” she says gently, untying the rope around her waist. “She will show Westeros what she is truly made of. And, in the meantime, you can free up your nights for you dear Lady of Winterfell.”

He sighs with contentment. “My Lady of Winterfell.”


End file.
